Corsican Death Read Online Free

things to tell me. About Mr. X, the man inside the Justice Department, the man the street says you own.
    Tell me about the two hundred keys, the load you’re sending to Dumas in New York. Next time, maybe Dumas shouldn’t beat the shit out of his women. That could hurt him. Like now. And it’s going to cost him.
    Lorraine Lana Larum. A sexy black woman. Nice lady. Except she don’t look so nice anymore. Crushed nose, teeth knocked out, and she’s got trouble seeing out of both eyes.
    But she didn’t have to see to betray Dumas, the man who kicked her out of his bed, kicking the hell out of her at the same time. All she had to do was talk, to inform, to drop the dime, to make that one telephone call.
    That’s how we knew you were in town, little brother. A lady. Nice lady.
    Somewhere behind John Bolt a car pulled out, tires squealing on concrete as the car headed up the ramp and toward the street. Off to the narc’s right, rock music shrieked from a garage attendant’s transistor radio. Farther behind the narc, an elevator wheezed to a stop, doors sliding open; then footsteps clattered on the concrete garage floor.
    A woman’s laugh went with the footsteps, and a man said, “Really, it really happened that way. Honest.”
    Honest. Bolt, still crouched low and feeling his legs stiffen, shook his head, eyes on Alain Lonzu. Who the hell was honest these days except the statues in the park? They didn’t steal your tax money or sell narcotics. Maybe that’s why pigeons loved them so much.
    The stiffness in Bolt’s legs was turning into thin needles of pain. He shifted, dropping to both knees on the concrete, still watching Lonzu and friends argue. Now Lonzu was losing his temper, and Bolt, who spoke perfect French and Spanish, could pick up a few words.
    Alain Lonzu, waving his hands in the air like an Italian peasant woman arguing with a butcher, said something about it being none of their business. It. That would probably be the late Claude Patek. Yeah. That’s Who it was.
    Bolt could see how the three other guys would have a few questions to ask Alain. After all, they had probably been told to come back with two men. Two. Now they’re being told only one’s coming with them. Well, if John Bolt had his way, no one was going anywhere.
    At least Alain Lonzu didn’t have manpower problems. D-3, the Department of Dangerous Drugs, damn sure did. Only six agents available to rush over to the hospital minutes after the fingerprint report had come in from Paris. A quick look at the late Claude Patek, then the six agents split up.
    Three tearing the hospital apart and making telephone calls like crazy. And three agents down here in the garage. Because Claude’s body was still warm. Very warm. And that meant Lonzu might be still hanging around.
    But he wouldn’t be for long. What I’d like to know, thought Bolt, is why kill Claude Patek. Why?
    Claude’s brother, Remy, wasn’t going to like it. Not even a little bit. Remy had a bad reputation, and he got it by killing people. Even the Count, big bad Count Napoleon Bonaparte Lonzu, would have a rough time keeping Remy Patek in line after this. Just what the hell had been going through little brother’s mind to make him do a thing like this?
    Why not ask the bastard? thought Bolt.
    The narc stood up, half in shadows and darkness, half in pale dust-filled sunlight. His Colt .45, a handgun powerful enough to tear an arm off, was gripped tightly in both hands. Arms extended, knees bent. Just like on the firing range.
    Except that the targets were men.
    “Freeze! Nobody move! Federal narcotics agents! You’re under arrest!”
    The yelling ripped at his vocal cords, scraping his throat raw, turning his voice hoarse in seconds. Make sure they hear you the first time. Quickly he spoke in French, same words, his eyes never leaving the four men whose heads had all snapped toward him as though all four necks were on the same string.
    “You’re surrounded. We have men on each